by Gwen Moffat
‘They’d have killed the goose if they thought it was going to fly,’ Jack said. ‘No hooker would stay longer than she had to in a place like Molten. Hardly any trade—and then, suppose the killers got the egg? Nine, ten thousand grand? Worth killing for that, eh?’
Emma stepped over the window sill. Ingrid was annoyed, and showed it. ‘We’ve been worried. What a slinky dress, my dear.’ She was wearing a green cheongsam which certainly showed a startling amount of thigh. She transformed their conventional party into something exotic. The afterglow was reflected in her eyes. Chadwick stared at her with parted lips.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I rode for ages and then I just soaked and soaked in the tub. I lost count of time. Someone killed for ten grand? Who? More to the point: who got killed?’
‘The hooker at Molten,’ Ingrid said.
‘Oh, She had ten grand? How on earth—in cash?’
‘She stole it.’
‘From a man? I see. And you’re saying that’s why she was murdered. How beastly. Simon, could I—?’
When she started talking he had torn his eyes away and sat studying the flagstones at his feet. Now he jumped up and would have hurried to the dining room but at the last moment he remembered to go round the company like a good waiter—more like an automaton tonight—accepting their responses with a lack of expression that was unlike him, although understandable if he were enduring physical discomfort.
‘The money wouldn’t be marked,’ Ingrid said thoughtfully when he had gone to the dining room. ‘Not like ransom money in a kidnapping. It would be random bills if it were casino winnings, so I assume it can’t be traced?’ No one responded. ‘It’s not much to kill for,’ she added, and that too dropped into the pool of silence with no noticeable ripple.
But they were thinking, for after a moment Emma agreed with her. ‘Not to kill for. Poor thing.’ She stared at Miss Pink who addressed her host. ‘What progress has Stuart made on the mobsters, if any? Has Sharleen Mullins been traced to St Louis?’
‘Indeed she has. I was given to understand—’ his eyes glittered, ‘—that there were people concerned in a multi-million dollar deal: a winter sports development in Colorado—accompanied by the mandatory kickbacks with which you’ll be familiar in the U.K.—’ his grin was positively wolfish ‘—but evidently someone didn’t play his role correctly, or he wanted out; at all events, he vanished. The inference was that he’d opted out: young dynamo collapsed under pressure, you know the kind of thing? Except that his wife was screaming foul play but no evidence could be found, no trace, except that on the night he’d disappeared he’d been seen in the company of Sharleen Mullins. And then she disappeared. There were millions of dollars at stake. Do you wonder that the Mob came after her as soon as someone told them where to look? They had to get to her before the police.’
Chadwick returned and handed his wife a martini. ‘Sex and money,’ she said softly. ‘People murder for it.’ She sounded incredulous.
‘These people seem totally inadequate,’ Ingrid said. ‘I think we’ll have the lights on, Simon; we’ve seen the best of the sunset.’
‘Brownies,’ said Miss Ginny, ‘have to be so heavy and sticky, you got to wash your hands after eating ’em.’ She placed a crystal finger bowl on the table beside Miss Pink.
They were in the housekeeper’s sitting room and Miss Pink had caught her at a moment when she was at leisure. Dinner was over and the maids had finished in the kitchen and gone to their quarters.
Miss Ginny put the lid on the brownie tin and placed it in the cupboard of an oak dresser, the timber of which had shrunk distressingly in the dry air. Kermit, the red cat, appeared, crossed the stone floor, inserted a claw in a crack, swung open the cupboard door and stepped inside.
‘That,’ said Miss Ginny, ‘is reminding me that the bedroom and this’n are his. Only the kitchen’s mine.’
‘Very reasonable. I live with cats too. I’m continually surprised at a subtle difference in American dogs—I don’t know whether it’s points or expression or behaviour—and yet cats are the same wherever one goes: England, Italy, the American deserts. Kermit could just as well be the cat next door in a Cornish village.’
‘Is that so? Here he comes. Heard his name, come out to make sure he don’t miss nothing.’ The cat considered them for a moment, then stalked out of the open door to the garden. Miss Ginny nodded approval. ‘That’s him off until all hours. Not so bad now; snakes is hibernating. Summer’s a different matter. Still, he’s six years old; he must have met any number of rattlers and sidewinders and scorpions, and he survived ’em all. Guess he’ll live a few more years yet if he keeps his wits about him.’
‘At least you don’t have our worst danger: cars on the roads, blinding animals with their headlights.’
‘True. There are people about of course, but they don’t come up here and we don’t go down there.’
‘Down where?’
‘Why, where the corrals and the bunk-house is. They keep the trucks down there.’
‘I thought they patrolled on horseback.’
‘Not at night. They use trucks then.’
‘How can people hunt at night?’
‘They come in to the valley in the dark and lie up till morning near the springs, waiting for animals to come and drink: early morning and dusk is when beasts drink mostly.’
‘Isn’t it something of a risk: those boys patrolling against armed men who may be twice their age? It would be so easy for a poacher to say his gun went off by accident particularly if there were no witnesses.’
Miss Ginny shook her head. ‘You’re taking it too seriously. It’s a game really. None of them would use their guns; they’d fire in the air—except the hunters, who are serious enough when they’re after sheep or deer. Otherwise it’s all a joke.’
‘Until someone does get shot. Hal Brewer was serious enough when he talked to me about tangling with poachers, but then maybe Tony is a restraining influence on him.’
Miss Ginny frowned. ‘It’s the other way round. Hal’s strong; Tony’s the weak one.’
‘It’s the desert.’ Miss Pink was dogmatic. ‘I’ve been here only a week but I’ve already discovered that it brings out extremes in people. Look at Mr Nielsen’s passion for his land and the wildlife; look at me: I find the place more fascinating the longer I stay. It grows on you. What does it do to people who don’t like it, I wonder?’
‘They go away if they got sense enough.’
‘Suppose they can’t leave?’
‘They got to come to terms. You thinking of Emma? She’ll learn to like it in time. Simon’s not about to leave and she won’t go without him. She’s young; she’ll settle.’
‘And Tony is very young.’
‘Doyle? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Brewer hinted, more than hinted, that Tony should go back to Texas before he made trouble.’
‘He did? Then he’s gossiping. There’s been far too much coming and going between Molten and Sweetwater these past few weeks but what can you expect? Mr Jack tries to keep this place like a fort, not just the ranch but the whole valley. That’s fine for us has got interests here: himself, Simon, me, but what about the young ones? You can’t pen up young animals, white or red; they’re gonna stray. Bertha Fraser found that out.’
‘The Indians go to Molten?’
‘Well, the field hands. They go out, is all I know. Where they go is their own business. They don’t go now, I’ve noticed, not with the police up at Molten. They stay down here where it’s safe.’
‘Does Myron have no outside interests?’
‘You’re asking too many questions. That is, without you give a reason for asking.’
‘Mr Nielsen is worried that the Indians may be implicated in the murders.’
‘Now you’re making sense. And I guess he reckons you can ask questions where he couldn’t. But he trusts Myron completely. If anything is wrong him and Myron will settle it between ’em.’
‘Even if they discovered one of the Sweetwater hands was a murderer?’
‘Why not?’ Miss Ginny was unmoved. ‘What right have the police got to interfere with our people? You have cats. One of your cats has to be put down, you decide, don’t you? Not leave it to some police from some county hall.’
‘Quite,’ Miss Pink said, adding in the same tone: ‘Why does Bertha Fraser hate Emma?’
‘Jealousy,’ Miss Ginny said promptly. ‘Emma’s got everything: youth, beauty, a life of luxury. Bertha Fraser has nothing but trouble. She’s a Mormon, you know, or was. Makes it worse. Very strict people, Mormons.’
‘But why pick on Emma?’
‘There’s no one else. Mrs Jack’s not young, not beautiful. That’ll mean more to Bertha Fraser than being rich, poor woman. There was a chance for Janice when she was on drugs just; there’s no chance now.’
‘She left Los Angeles eight days before her body was found near Molten. Where could she have been in the interval?’
‘Oh, come on!’ Miss Ginny stared. ‘Why ask me?’
‘Because everyone in Molten is involved some way or another. But here at the ranch they’re at the other extreme: they’re too remote. You’d get nowhere asking them. It was just an idea. Bread on the waters. The police appear to be stumped. Where could she have been?’
Miss Ginny looked round her sitting room as if genuinely looking for the answer there, trying to help. ‘I don’t know. Holed up someplace I guess. In the desert. Probably with a man, or with someone. If she was on drugs she wouldn’t be alone all that time. Addicts don’t like to be alone. All I can say is that the longer it takes for them detectives to find where she was, then the more careful she was hid. And if she was in the desert then there aren’t all that many places for her to hide, you know that? Looks enormous, don’t it, the desert, but it’s naked: exposed for hundreds of miles. A hole in the ground is my guess, like an old mine.’
Chapter 14
‘We have a small job to do,’ Nielsen said as Miss Pink took her place at the breakfast table. ‘Young Tony’s lost his horse and is probably limping out of the canyon right now. He was up in Bighorn Basin yesterday. I’d sent him to stabilize that nasty boulder: the one was hanging over the road? We’ll go up and meet him, have a look around for the puma.’
‘Now how do you lose your horse?’
‘The simplest way. It was tied up and the halter broke: must have been yesterday afternoon sometime since Tony hadn’t unsaddled. I guess he intended to spend the night up there—they usually do; everyone likes stopping over at the Stone Cabin—but when his horse ran he had no choice but to stay there. He’ll be walking out now, expecting to meet someone bringing his horse. The brute ran straight home, of course. They always do.’
‘There are no marks on it?’
He grinned. ‘Not a scratch, but you may be on the right track. I thought of that too. A puma’s not going to attack a young healthy horse but it could give it a good fright.’
‘Couldn’t Tony have had a bad fall?’
‘No. He wasn’t mounted when it happened. The reins were over the horn, the halter was broken and dangling. But the horse could have been terrified. When it reached here it was still nervous enough to have knocked a rail out of the corral. The whole herd was out this morning.’ He stood up. ‘I must have a word with Simon before we go. He’s late coming down.’
‘He wasn’t well yesterday.’
‘What? Oh, yes, I forgot. I’ll send someone up to him.’ A telephone rang. ‘Damn! Excuse me.’ He stumped into the house.
Miss Pink was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when Chadwick appeared. His face was haggard but he was exercising such control that he looked positively defiant.
‘Simon!’ She was concerned. ‘Have you had an awful night?’
‘Not very comfortable.’ He tried to be bright but his tone was hollow. ‘However, it will pass, no doubt. Yes, I will have some coffee, thank you.’ He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and looked towards the mountains. His eyes were quite desperate. Miss Pink was puzzled.
‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’
He turned to her slowly, blinking as he considered the question. ‘Fly out?’ he asked, as much of himself, it seemed, as of her. He did not pursue it because Nielsen came hurrying back.
‘Ah, Simon! Has Melinda told you about Tony?’
‘Tony?’ His face went blank.
‘His horse came in, so we’re taking it up to him. That was Stuart on the phone: he’s brought in another pathologist to take a look at those bodies. Now he says he’s not satisfied.’ He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Very odd. Can’t understand it.’
‘The bodies in the car wreck? What’s odd?’
‘One of ’em, the body of the Fraser girl: you remember it was in far worse condition than the other? You called attention to it yourself. Stuart was puzzled too. Parts of the limbs were gone, I mean one whole leg, all the organs too. And yet the other was just charred: burned, but all there, if you follow me. Okay, so the expert reckons there are tooth marks on a femur.’
Miss Pink was fascinated. Chadwick looked stunned.
‘Coyotes,’ Nielsen said. ‘And there was sand in the body.’
‘In it?’
‘The organs were gone so there was sand where they had been. There would be, wouldn’t there?’
‘A hole in the ground,’ Miss Pink breathed, staring at Chadwick. ‘She was buried.’
‘Who was buried?’
‘Janice Fraser.’ She realized that the manager seemed not quite with them.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t see why she had to be murdered.’ He drank some coffee. ‘It’ll make things simpler for Stuart of course.’ He grinned horribly. ‘It was the big stumbling block: where she’d been since she left Los Angeles. Why did she have to be killed?’
‘Why did anyone?’ Nielsen glowered at him. ‘Are you sick? You look awful. Doesn’t he look sick, Melinda? Go back to your room and lie down.’
‘Simon should see a doctor,’ he said as they set out from the ranch, leading Doyle’s saddled horse. ‘He’s picked up some bug.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s wrong with the fellow? Ingrid says he’s not sick at all: says it’s his wife.’
Miss Pink sighed and pulled her mind back from a consideration of Janice Fraser. ‘Does she elaborate?’
‘Says the girl’s bored, discontented. I know that. She wasn’t always though.’
‘No.’
‘Right. You tell me. Ingrid won’t.’
‘Don’t try to bully me, Jack. I suspect that Ingrid won’t discuss speculation with you. Nor shall I. Facts are a different matter.’
‘What have you been doing for the past week?’
‘That was murder. This is the private business of your staff.’
‘Private problems. Emma’s only a child and I’m fond of Simon. I’m fond of her. What’s wrong there?’
She rode for a while in silence. Finally she said firmly: ‘I refuse to discuss the matter, but I do have a word of advice. Send Doyle and Brewer home.’
‘Brewer too? Ingrid said just Tony.’
‘You said she wouldn’t discuss it.’
‘No more she did. But she did tell me to ship Tony back to his father. I’m going to do that. You think I should send Hal home as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
But she refused to say any more on the subject and, noting her set face, he did not persist. They continued, side by side, the spare horse plodding behind. There was no sign of Doyle. ‘He must be still coming down the canyon,’ Nielsen muttered, but the man was not in the canyon, nor was he by the springs— or if so, he was certainly not on the road, although he had come this way recently. The big boulder that had hung so precariously at the top of the eroded bank, had been toppled and now lay on the edge of the road. Miss Pink had wondered about that boulder, but there was no sign that anything untoward had happened here.
The
y stopped at the foot of the long slope that led to Bighorn Basin and studied the road through binoculars as they had done two days ago. It was as empty now as it had been then.
‘Okay,’ Nielsen said firmly, as if terminating an argument, but Miss Pink had said nothing: ‘So he’s being idle and waiting for someone to bring his horse. You can’t walk in cowboy boots; no wrangler would dream of it. This’ll teach him to tie his horse more carefully in future.’ Miss Pink did not remind him that the halter had been broken.
At midday they came in sight of the Stone Cabin, three miles away, beyond the intricately layered butte. The hanging valley was full of sunshine and silence and nothing moved on the dusty ribbon of the road. Doyle’s horse walked stolidly behind Nielsen’s, betraying no sign of fear nor excitement. She noticed Nielsen glance at it occasionally but neither made any comment on its unremarkable behaviour. Instead she said: ‘Did Stuart have a theory about Janice’s body being buried and then dug up?’
‘No, but I’ve been thinking. The coyotes dug her up.’
‘Yes. So why was—Ah, the body couldn’t be disposed of by burial, so they tried to burn it.’ There was silence except for the squeak of leather and the chink of bits. She said carefully: ‘So Janice could have been killed within a day or two of leaving Los Angeles. She could have reached Molten.’
‘Hitch-hikers are asking for trouble. You don’t know who’s on the roads these days.’ She made no response. Suddenly he burst out: ‘Where is the fellow? The horse was tied; he couldn’t have been thrown.’
‘Could he have been kicked? Tied his horse, then examined a sore place on its leg, or tried to?’
‘Nothing wrong with the horse. Besides, Tony’s been around horses all his life. Suppose he was kicked, where is he? For Heaven’s sakes, Melinda, where would you tie an animal? There’s not even a creosote bush in this valley.’
